


His ways, his meanings

by ca_te



Category: Death Note
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ca_te/pseuds/ca_te
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written on 27 August 2009. Written for dn_contest community over at Livejournal. Thanks to Jenwryn for the beta.</p>
    </blockquote>





	His ways, his meanings

**Author's Note:**

> Written on 27 August 2009. Written for dn_contest community over at Livejournal. Thanks to Jenwryn for the beta.

Fight: 1. A battle or combat

2\. any contest or struggle

3\. an angry argument or disagreement

4\. boxing. A bout or contest

5\. a game or diversion in which the participants hit or pelt each other with something harmless: a pillow fight; a water fight

6\. ability, will, or inclination to fight.

 

Mello has always had a thing for dictionaries. They give him the impression of containing the world. All of it, while him, Mello, has always felt too little, just a spit on the surface of the world. He has never been able to change nothing, not his mother's death, not the fact of being second. And when you can't change things you struggle harder.

Actually L had wanted all of the Wammy's kids to learn how to fight, at least a bit. A genius still has a body in the end. He himself had learnt the basics of capoeira when he was a kid. Before Watari had brought him to Wammy's.

But that wasn't how Mello had hit someone for the first time. Back when he had arrived in Winchester he had already kicked and bitten the men who had picked him up when his mother had died. He had hit so hard that one of them had his nose broken. Back then Mello was only nine years old, his knuckles hurt for weeks.

Indeed Mello has always looked too fragile, too fragile not to use his feet and fists to talk. They wouldn't have listened otherwise.

When Mello arrived at Wammy's he wasn't used to being among all those children, all spoiled and all with the idea of being the best on Earth. When Mello arrived at Wammy's B was still there.

He was the first one Mello fought with, his attitude was too cocky, his eyes were too dark, and he was too similar to L. Mello just couldn't allow that.

It was a boring day, even the sun was sleepy. L was leaving again, for God knew where. All the orphans were standing at the entrance, looking at the detective who was about to climb into the car. B, Mello and Near were in front of all the others. It was their right after all. B just said few words, almost whispered in L's ear. "I really hope you won't survive this time". That was enough. Mello just let his body move on its own accord. First B's lower lip, then his right ear. Mello's jaw cracked under B's fist. The bastard was skilful. They ended up on the dry soil, L looking at them without saying a word. Mello wished L would say something, even insult them.

L solved the case, and when he came back B left. The memories of that first fight didn't abandoned Mello, though, the sound of B's bones under his hands, the pulsating pain he had felt.

But Mello wasn't the kind of kid who would be satisfied before having tried out everything he could. And he was brilliant enough to know that fighting didn't mean only hit and be hit, blood and bones.

The world was full of things spitting on his face, challenging him. That arrogant "2nd" on the chart Roger hung in the main hall every time they had a test. The memory of B's face. The fact that Near didn't care about him, the fact that Matt cared too much.

That was how he began to consider himself a fighter. But not one of those stupid puppets in those old tales of knights and heroes, no. No, one of those who would never have let someone stand over them. Like that Mello grew up at Wammy's.

Like that Mello entered the mafia. It was as if the world were offering him a place made specially for him, the opportunity to crash the ones who tried to surpass him, who tried to block him from reaching L's glory. And, really, who the hell cared about killing a couple of people, that was just how things were. Even his god was a god of armies, even his god needed to be strong to let the others hear his voice.

So Mello learnt how to wash away the stains of blood on his leather pants and how to wash away the idea that L would have looked at him with disgust. In the end it was L who had told him, who had told all the orphans at Wammy's, to learn how to fight, each one in his own way.

Sometimes Mello sits on the worn out couch in the hideout and looks at the brick walls. He knows he can't allow himself to look back, to doubt what he has chosen, that's a luxury that neither he nor Near can have. But sometimes it's just too hard to resist. It's in these moments that what he recalls aren't brawls or arguments, but the pillow fights he had had with Matt, the red-head's laughter rebounding against the walls of the room they'd shared. Or the times he'd found himself in Near's bed, the way their tongues, their hands, their minds had fought for supremacy.

When this happens Mello closes his eyes and tries to calm down the pounding of his heart, the rush of his blood.

Mello may be a genius, may be a fighter, but still he hasn't learnt how to fight against his own feelings. He hates it, 'cause they make him weak, no different from those very knights and superheroes that he despises. Feelings make him less than Near, they make him more distant from the man L was.

Still they are there, and his god created men with feelings.

And who is Mello to fight against that, in the end?


End file.
